


The mirror cuts off your eyes;

by canbreathe



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Kris, Child Neglect, Control Issues, Dyscalculia, Emotional Hurt, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Insomnia, Kris does not mean to be a bad kid, Kris tries very hard, Loss of Control, Mental Health Issues, Neurodivergent Kris, No Dialogue, Nonbinary Kris (Deltarune), Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 10:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canbreathe/pseuds/canbreathe
Summary: It's somewhat of a surprise.





	The mirror cuts off your eyes;

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Expectations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524227) by [Asparkofh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asparkofh/pseuds/Asparkofh). 
  * Inspired by [Choices Have Consequences, Even When You Don't Make Them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530560) by [PennamePersona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennamePersona/pseuds/PennamePersona). 
  * Inspired by [Our Friends Do Not Look Fine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514696) by [CourierNew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNew/pseuds/CourierNew). 
  * Inspired by [Controller](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/430718) by Blouse (Song). 



> (Ideas for the word usage come from the fanfics this is inspired by, the feeling of this fic comes from the song and the first part of this fic was inspired by a real life experience.)
> 
> Still they can't take away the sun  
> No one's trying to control it
> 
> They used to say that  
> You're old enough to know  
> (But what's the use of that  
> If you have no control?
> 
> When you were young enough  
> To know exactly what to do  
> You remember it all  
> And why we found you
> 
> They used to say that  
> You're old enough to know  
> You never say that  
> You're under control)

When you stand up straight, the mirror cuts off your eyes. It's weird, only being able to see your own lips, and yet hardly any of your fringe.

 

Growing up reminds you of getting older kids stuff when you were little. It was fun. Was not. Maybe. You're not quite sure.

Growing up reminds you of flicking through letters and wondering who those people were, and then finding out you've apparently known them for a month (your memory has never been that good; school drills this into you many times over).

Growing up reminds you of trying as hard as you could on tests, and never getting it right, and when you didn't try you ended up doing about the same anyway.

Growing up reminds you of hoping someone would like you for who you are, but instead being pushed further into a corner, others taking up your unused space with noise.

Growing up reminds you of full homes that never really loved, and empty of real life despite movement, and being too loud to be loved, you got quieter and got love, but then you got too quiet and they obviously wouldn't listen to a-

 

Growing up reminds you of working very very hard and having it all slip through your fingers.

Days spent working hard and all you get is pain the next day, or just an unbelievable amount of numbness that soaks you to your very core, and you can't even move anymore. You don't bother very much anymore; you think you've just about reached the limit of the amount you can care in a lifetime. (Some people seem to never stop caring; Mum and Dad and Asriel. You wonder what they did to be able to care so much.)

The name Kris feels like something's missing, just out of reach, but it's better than every other name you've tried. You've tried many names. (People stopped listening to you after one too many attempts to find the right one, however many that is.) You feel empty, like something should be inside of you, but at this point you're missing a lot of everything, so it doesn't matter too much. You think you shaved away so much trying to be good, that you shaved away a lot of yourself, too. You're left with pretty much nothing now. You don't like yourself very much.

You don't think anyone would really believe you, though. Not anymore. It's your fault, not theirs. They didn't do anything. Maybe. You don't know. You never know; they know the best for you. Probably.

You scrub at your blurry eyes; they've betrayed you once again (just like everything else), but at least past your fringe they won't be able to see.

You want to ask Toriel to move the mirror up again, but you wonder if it'll even be worth it to bother her. Probably not. You chew your sleeve. You don't want to be annoying. (Stop chewing your sleeve! It's gross!) You take your sleeve out of your mouth, and turn away from the mirror. You guess you'll just not look at your reflection so often. (Maybe you'll be able, then, to ignore how much you've grown up and how much better you should be by now.)

-

Sometimes, you try to be quiet and take up the least space, but you're hopeless. You're always a bit too loud to be unnoticed (your shambling moments, stumbling over nothing and moving like a shackled spirit), a bit too big to be hidden by others.

Maybe a lot too loud and a lot too big.

Your fringe shields you from the looks, at least. Not that you don't notice them, but-

 

You guess it doesn't matter so much.

 

Your soul burns bright deep down, inside of you despite how hollowed out you feel (a scalding shell) and you still try to hide it to be unnoticed, and you try to protect your hardened being with your arms, but there's only so much that you can do.

-

Susie reminds you of someone.

You aren't really sure who it is, but you're never really sure of anything so you're pretty sure it doesn't matter.

You like her, maybe.

She's a bully, all the other kids say she is so you know you're right, but at least she doesn't get complimented on her good work by a teacher just after she said you were stupid and weird and dumb, and she doesn't compared to you as something better. You don't really get compared to her at all. It's almost like people don't want her to be there, really. When you look at her, sometimes you wonder if you're just another set of shut-off eyes (but you're shut off in different way, you think. trying to shut off your caring because it's brought too much pain and too little gain), or if she even knows you're looking at her. She probably does. You know when someone's looking at you, after all.

You suppose that most kids who get told off by bigger people usually know when people are looking at them. After all, you had to try for their eyes and only got to relax far away or with your Mum, who somehow cares enough for the many people around her (maybe, with Asgore you- it probably doesn't matter, you're usually wrong about most of everything anyway). It reminds you of the situations you're told you shouldn't interfere in, the stuff that you aren't going to understand so you should just stop listening into it. Susie probably cares even less than you do. She doesn't seem to care about really anything at all. You can almost admire that; you've always wanted to care about nothing at all. You could be wrong though, you usually are; maybe she cares about someone and can't see it (you can't see a lot, behind the armour of your long fringe and the invisible barriers that hold you back from everyone else), but you somehow doubt it. She never really seems to bother you too much, other than the usual comments. You can ignore those, for now. Hopefully you'll be able to find out a little more about her later. You finally snap back into the wavering world, sunny skies and trickles of cloud; a world of missing chalk and people not expecting really anything at all from you anymore.

- 

You stare at the blinds; tiny white stars poke through the cream coloured shields. They shudder from the faint whisper of the breeze. You look down at the homework in front of you. It probably doesn't matter. They'll get annoyed at you no matter what you do, and you'll end up so distracted you won't be able to finish it anyway; another half solved puzzle for the collection. Toriel will look at you disappointed, but she'll still take you home and feed you and somehow love you anyway. She might wish for a better kid, but she already has one even though he's already left. You wonder if you even really qualify as one of her kids.

You wipe the homework off the kitchen table in one fell swoop (four dining chairs, two no longer used and another for someone who probably doesn't belong here or there or anywhere at all). The paper floats onto the other chairs, and your book slumps to the floor, and you get up and have officially given up, you're not going to try anymore because what's even the point anymore, you can't do this, you're too stupid and weird and dumb and you don't belong here and you wish you just weren't ever here at all-

Your Mum takes your hands, rubs her thumbs against your raw palms. The pads on her paws are squishy and smooth and tough like a cat's, and with tethers of faint healing magic and demonstration, she helps you to remember to breathe. You didn't realise that you'd forgotten how. (You're absolutely useless sometimes, you guess. This is probably just one of those times.) You scrub at your eyes when she finally lets your hands go, satisfied by your ability to breathe again. She picks up your work, and reminds you that you can always ask her for help. You sometimes forget that; you're not used to being told you can ask for help, not after everything your fragile heart has fought its way through, hardened beyond an eggshell or a sheet of steel. She gently guides you through abrasive numbers, all the digits that cause so much friction (you just can't tell them apart, no matter how hard you try. your best has never been good enough for anyone other than your family, and you don't think it ever will be). When the light through the windows is soft purple and orange, gently guided into steel, you go into your bed, exhausted and ready for sleep. It takes you a long time to be taken away from this world by it.

-

Something's found you.

 

It's dark and you don't know, navy sky and black land. You feel choked. It's autumn but it's dark, your breath is the only one that's crystal white against the vague shimmer of the moon. Your breath feels cold against your hand, and yet it still steams. You're so cold. You can barely see against the thick blackness, and you want out but you don't know where that is. The fog is packed tight together, and you're adding to it. You usually add to the mess. (That's what they tell you.)

Tiny flakes of moonlight dust the ground, shining against black ice and invisible against the bottomless road. If you trip and fall onto it, you might never come back. You feel like a cored apple; it happened to you for convenience and you can't argue with that, not anymore. You're too messed up to stay whole. You don't even yell or kick against whatever is clutching you, and you don't even break anything. You guess this is what happens to kids who run past cars without realising they could get hit, those who can't force anything beyond a breath past their lips, those who stare at the light on the walls without listening, those who scrub their hands against brick and stone, those who pick at their lips and bleed slowly with small strips of thin skin under their nails, those who become hardly anything at all. They get lost.

Your arms and legs and torso are ice cold; frozen water soaks you to the bone. The lake is clean and soft at the bottom, unlike the river you once fell into (thrashing against the same thing). The lake is only waist deep, but then again, you've always been good at making a mess. That's what a lot of people tell you. 

You're used to wet sleeves, you chew on them endlessly during lessons that you do attend, and your collar on the one's you don't, when you're numb and hollow, sleeping fully clothed and waking up with what may as well be nothing at all; beneath your duvet and jumper and t-shirt, you still end up freezing cold on those days. This is a different kind of wet though; freezing stuff that permeates everything, chilling what is probably your emptied out core by a fraction, but your soul had a tiny fraction left anyway so it hurts a lot. When you stumble home, freezing cold and somehow finding your way in the fog and beyond the haze that tries to drag you back but keeps slipping, you're dripping and shaking and dirty, wet sand and algae all over your clothes. Your ankles creak, your wrists unhealthily clunk. You can't even find it in yourself to cry anymore (you're what the other kids tell you, stupid and weird and dumb). The house is empty, and you don't even think Toriel has noticed that you've left. Nobody ever notices you, you don't think. It'd probably be less effort for everyone if you weren't here, but here you are, alive. Somehow. You drip water all the way up to the stairs, dirty shoes in your hands. You quietly open your bedroom door, and put them down. You kick your wet and dirty clothing under your bed, and put on new clothes without even drying yourself. You drag yourself into bed, shaking from the cold or maybe something else, you don't know. You're a dead body under the sheets; a skeleton in the closet. Not yet a skeleton, but someday. Your rot will cling to the sheets, creaking bones as your decaying body trips and falls. Maybe you're living in a decaying body now, and you don't know it yet.

 

You try too many times and yet still fail to sleep.

-

The gravestones taste like static (unbearable spice and dark chocolate; the supposedly healthy things easily disproved) on your tongue, feel like sand under your nails. You shuffle past them, despite how hard whatever is in your body tries to drag you back, and plant yourself firmly onto the bench. Somehow, the view of yellow leaves and the setting sun reminds you of endless flowers, huge hugs that give you a little light even if it seems to burn, the brightness of your Dad's shop. Of the bleakness of Asgore's upstairs, the green of the walls. The pickle jar, that when you last checked was full. You peel open your eyes, that you hadn't even realised were closed. Stop. (Listen to what I'm trying to tell you!). You ignore the repetition in the back of your head, and you chew your collar. Distant hymns ring from the Church, or somewhere beneath, deep inside your head. Toriel should be out soon, but you don't know if you can bare sitting here for much longer; not with your legs twitching to drag you back to the graveyard and your wrists straining as you fight you keep your arms attached to the bench. It really hurts, but you don't want to feel the static again. You finally have let go when your wrists give up on you and pain clunks up your arms particularly badly. Your feet drag you to the graves, and your eyes itch as you try to focus on the grain of the headstones. Your eyes painfully bring the writing into focus, and fuzzy static builds in your cheeks and behind your lips, caked flour choking your hands as it roars in your ears and as you refuse to take in the writing and let something else take it for you, peel the letters from your eyes. After whatever has been holding your muscles painfully tight slips away in an instant, like the sun on a cloudy day, you collapse into the ground. Toriel finally calls for you after you stare deep into the shadow you cast for what feels like a few minutes, and you turn and stand up and walk up to her, despite the pain building in your ankles.

You hope that, for now, you're able to leave whatever took your limbs back with the static of the tombstones, in the graveyard with the cold earth under the graves that it wanted so badly to see (you have very little hope and very little time).

**Author's Note:**

> hh This is cobbled together from many things and a Lot of head cannons about Kris being one of those 'bad kids' who really just doesn't know what they're doing is wrong or how to fix it and Kris bab I love you.  
> Also, as what is basically a tradition at this point, I am head cannoning Kris as autistic because... i had to. Also yes the first chapter of the very Chara-y fanfic will be coming out soon, I just needed a lot more time than I originally thought I would!!


End file.
